Chapter Twenty-Seven
TWENTY-SEVEN
Gray and I don’t talk on the way. Again, I have endless questions—and I’m sure Gray does, too—but we’d only be bouncing them back and forth, and neither of us wants to do that when the footmen might overhear.
The coach heads across to Princes Street and then over the Mound to High Street. It turns left onto what will one day be called the Royal Mile—a mile-long stretch with the castle at one end and the palace at the other. We are headed for the palace.
I don’t look out the window. I can tell where we are, and I can also tell that people are staring and making way for the coach. I stay well back in my seat and Gray does the same.
“It will be all right,” he says finally. “I know you are worried, but whatever this is, it is not a cause for concern.” He pauses. “Not a cause for great concern.”
“Addington?” I whisper.
He blinks. “Ah. Is it possible that Addington’s family connections reach to the palace?
Yes. To some bureaucrat, most likely. Is it possible that bureaucrat has summoned me to rap my knuckles for an implied insult?
Yes. But if that were the case, the footman would not have made it clear we are in no trouble.
And I do not see why, in that instance, you would be summoned as well. ”
“Do you know anyone at the palace?” I ask.
His lips twitch. “Some old friend who has risen in the ranks and is now inviting me to tea?”
I throw up my hands. “How should I know? I’m covering all the bases here.
” I freeze, hands raised, realizing how I’m talking and acting and whisper, “Shit. I can’t pull this off, Duncan.
I’m going to do or say something wrong. Can I stay in the coach?
You can say I’m overcome with nerves. Please.
I can’t do this. I’ll mess it up. For you. ”
“Breathe, Mallory.”
I glare at him.
He shifts forward and lays a hand on my knee, after a look around to make sure no one can see into the coach. “You can do this.”
“No, I can’t. I’m already talking like me, gesticulating like me.”
“Which you no longer do in front of those who could find it cause for concern. You did not do it in front of friends and family until you knew them better. You do not do it in front of anyone we meet professionally. You have not done it in front of the Adlers or their staff or the Parsonses or anyone else. You can do this.”
“But should I? Maybe we shouldn’t take the chance.”
“We can risk you making a mistake—very temporarily, because you will catch yourself. Or we risk insulting whoever summoned us both here by only one of us appearing.”
“But everyone understands nerves. The malady of women everywhere. Right beside hysteria.” I pause. “I could become hysterical, if you like.”
“Please, no.” His fingers grip my knee. “What I would like, Mallory, is for you to be at my side during this. I know I seem very calm. But I am, as you would say, freaking out.”
I swallow. “I just don’t want to ruin this for you.”
“In the year you have been here, you have never ruined anything for me.” His voice lowers. “You have only made things better. You have made everything better.” A pause. “Do you understand that?”
My mouth goes dry. I know he’s not saying what I might hope he’s saying. That’s the problem with wanting a thing. You keep seeing it, hearing it, desperate for it.
“Mallory?” He ducks to catch my gaze. “You make my life better, and the only thing I want is for you to be at my side. Is that all right?”
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out. And then the coach stops.
“Will you stay with me?” he says.
I swallow hard. I know he means will I stay with him now, during this visit, but I want to read more into it. There seems to be more to it. But am I just imagining—?
The coach door swings open, and we both jump back. Then Gray stands and climbs out before he turns and extends his hand. And I reach out and take it.
In the modern day, I’ve been in Holyrood Palace, on a tour with a great-aunt who adored all things royal and insisted I see it.
I mostly remember being disappointed, having gleaned all my mental images of palaces from Disney movies.
I recall coming in and being led through endless rooms, as my great-aunt explained that this was the path visitors would have taken, each room grander than the last, leading them up the stairs and through more rooms until they reached the king’s bedchamber.
Okay, the last detail is probably why I remember the rest. I’d been about thirteen, at an age when hearing that visitors were taken to the king’s bedroom had me perking up with “say what?” But it’s not nearly as risqué as it seems. The bedchamber was just where he’d meet the most vaunted guests.
When I saw it, the guide even said that no king had ever slept there.
In Prince Albert’s day, he used it as a dressing room, with a shower in the corner.
Which has me thinking … If Prince Albert had a bathroom shower, and he’s already dead, that means they’ve been invented and getting one for myself is a possibility, right?
As it turns out, we don’t enter by that formal route. We’re taken in a side door and through what looks like staff spaces. Then it’s up a set of stairs and through a secret door.
Yes, we go through a secret door. In a royal palace. Okay, it’s actually a staff entrance, but it is hidden, so that makes it a secret door.
The door exits into a long portrait gallery. From there, we’re taken to an adjoining room, and while I could be offended that we’re “snuck in” the staff route, it’s actually just efficiency, taking us directly to where we need to be.
We’re escorted into a room that wouldn’t be out of place in the Adler home.
It’s larger than the sitting rooms at Gray’s town house, but cozy enough.
The wallpaper is green and gold, and there are Persian rugs on the floor.
Two windows overlook the ruins of the abbey, and there’s an easel in one corner with a half-finished painting of those ruins.
The room does have an odd feature, though. One side is screened off, and it seems as if I should be able to see through the thin screen, but I can’t.
I want to walk up to it and try to peer through. I also want to make a joke about one-way glass in interrogation rooms. I do neither. I am on my best behavior, only glancing around before taking one of two chairs that the butler indicates.
There is no third chair.
And we’re seated facing that screen.
We’ve barely had time to lower ourselves into the chairs before someone raps at the door. The butler opens it and a maid wheels in a tea tray.
“We have heard you did not return home for lunch, and we would hate for you to also miss tea.” The butler smiles. “We have heard you are a great lover of tea, Dr. Gray. The pastries, at least.”
That’s a little unsettling. Gray only inclines his head. “I do appreciate them. Thank you.”
“You will find this selection particularly superb, as we have recently acquired a Parisian pastry chef. There is also a selection of teas. I would suggest the Earl Grey. It is Her Majesty’s private blend.”
“We will have that, thank you.”
The maid hurries around to prepare the tea.
As it steeps, she uncovers the trays, and I try not to stare.
Gray might be a pastry aficionado, but we’re still a long time before French pastries are easily available in Scotland, and more than once I’ve seen him eye the selection at a tea shop with disappointment.
I’ve been trying to learn pastry making for him, but I’ve only mastered doughnuts and some very suspect-looking cream puffs. Do you know how hard it is to whip cream without an electric mixer?
I consider myself only a middling fan of pastries, but if I saw these in a shopwindow, I’d be making a pit stop, emptying my purse, and maybe not even taking them all home to Gray.
I recognize croissants and éclairs and pate à choux and macarons. Even the plain croissants look as if they’re composed of nothing but butter and air.
There are three trays of these marvels. What happens to the ones we don’t eat? Will the staff get them? Or will they—gasp—be thrown in the trash?
Apparently, I have a challenge to meet.
The maid pours tea as Gray and I both reach for the same pate à choux. I smile and withdraw my hand.
“There are three,” he murmurs. “As long as you leave me the third, I will be happy.”
“Or Jane can bring you more,” a voice says, and we both give a start.
The voice comes from the other side of that screen. It’s a woman’s voice, with a resonant English accent, a voice that sounds neither old nor young, pitched neither high nor low, but the words are spoken with such bell-like clarity that I have to steel myself not to sneak a look at Gray.
The voice reminds me of his sister Annis, not in the accent or the timbre but in that indisputable self-assurance rarely found in women in this time. Oh, hell, rarely found in women at all. One who knows her value and her authority.
The voice of a queen?
She continues, “Jane? See that you bring more of those, and see that any Dr. Gray and Miss Mitchell do not eat are packaged for them to take home.”
“That is … most generous,” Gray says, and it’s obvious I’m not the only one struggling here. If the woman behind that screen is not supposed to be Queen Victoria, then we’re not supposed to act as if it is, right? But if we suspect it could be, then how do we behave without giving offense?
“That will be all,” the woman says, dismissing the staff. “I wish to speak to my guests alone.”
A moment later, the door closes behind them.
I wonder how our host is going to handle this, how she’ll explain the situation, who she’ll claim to be.
Silly question, really. If she is who we think she is, she’s not explaining a damn thing. And she doesn’t.
“You are investigating a murder,” she says.
I glance at Gray. Does the monarchy play more of a role in law enforcement than I thought? Have we done something wrong?